Haunted
by Aurilia
Summary: AU for SPN post-2.07 The Usual Suspects, AU for NCIS post-4.07 Sandblast. Something is after Team Gibbs and it's up to the Brothers Winchester to save the day.
1. Mawher's Medicine

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** As you may have caught from the disclaimer and/or the category in which this particular fic is posted, this is a crossover between _NCIS _and _Supernatural_. It is, by necessity, AU to both series – as many of you are already aware, I hold little love for the Angels-and-the-Apocalypse direction SPN took (there were a billion other ways to run the series, but I acknowledge that this is just my opinion and as such matters little to anyone but me), and since I wanted to write a tale prior to that whole arc of SPN, I needed to select a starting point before the beginning of season four. I also didn't want to have to deal with Dean's Dumbassery (a.k.a. 'The Deal'), so that meant a starting point prior to the end of season two. So, this goes AU for SPN partway through season two – just after 2.07 (_The Usual Suspects_) to be specific.

Now, on my DVD box, it says that SPN 2.07 aired on 01/09/2006, but I believe this to be a typo since the episodes just before and after were both in November – the 'corrected' date I'm running with is 11/09/2006. Since I'm using this date as my starting point, this puts the start of my story between NCIS episodes 4.07 (_Sandblast_) and 4.08 (_Once a Hero_). Since both series are a little lax in providing fans with actual dates, I decided to open this story a few hours after the ending of SPN 2.07, which I figure would place it roughly on Monday, November 13, 2006.

Though I'm writing this as though no episodes after SPN 2.07 and NCIS 4.07 have aired, I wrote it keeping the histories as shown in later episodes in mind – meaning that though I may not mention as much, any preseries information provided in episodes that aired after my selected starting point remains true in this tale (for example, how Tony and Gibbs met, as revealed in NCIS 8.22 (_Baltimore_), or the fact that Sam and Dean once attended Truman High, as shown in SPN 4.13 (_After School Special_)).

Enough with my blathering, on with the story!

* * *

**Haunted**

_Mawher's Medicine_

"You've been with us for six months now, Mikel." Dr. Andrews adjusted his reading glasses and sat aside the file-folder containing Mikel's information. He peered over his lenses at the man in question.

Mikel lounged in the chair across the desk from the doctor and shrugged. "Seems longer," he said. The man's dark hair was nearly long enough to pull into a ponytail and made him seem paler than he actually was. The dark circles under his eyes told the psychiatrist a story all their own.

"Still not sleeping well?" Dr. Andrews asked.

Mawher shrugged again, the motion nearly unnoticeable under the pale blue scrub-top and sickly green bathrobe he wore. "I don't like the new meds."

"Bad dreams or insomnia?"

"More of the former," Mikel admitted. "But some nights…"

"Then it's probably the imipramine." The doctor turned part of his attention to his computer. "We already tried sertraline and paroxetine."

"I know. The first made me sick." Mawher shivered a little. "The second didn't do anything."

Dr. Andrews nodded in agreement. "I recall, and I must apologize yet again for the difficulties we're having in evening out your medications, Mikel."

"Don't sweat it, doc. I know you're doing your best." Mikel, as always, seemed unconcerned with the pharmacological side of his therapy.

"Thank you, Mikel," the doctor replied. He typed for a moment on his computer, then refocused his attention on his patient. "I'm switching you to amphiltreptozine, effective immediately."

"Don't know that one, doc." Mikel actually managed to show interest at the new medication.

"It was just cleared by the FDA last month," Dr. Andrews explained. "It's a tricyclic, much like imipramine, but the only reported side-effects during the clinical trials were fatigue-related."

"You mean the only side-effects that weren't psychosomatic," Mawher shot the psychiatrist a little smirk.

Dr. Andrews nodded. "Exactly, Mikel. The rest of the reported side-effects were similar to, and the same frequency of, those reported by the ones taking placebos." Mikel's smirk grew a little with the confirmation of his assumption. "The nurse will be here in a few moments with your medications," Andrews said. "Before she arrives, however, would you care to explain just why Miguel found numerous sketches hidden under your bed?"

Mawher shifted uncomfortably in his chair, pulling his legs in and crossing his arms over his chest. "Would you believe it was extra-credit for art-therapy?"

Dr. Andrews shook his head. "Not when they are all recognizably Abigail Sciuto." He sighed. "I thought we were past this, Mikel." After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, the doctor continued. "If she loved you like you wished she did, wouldn't she have come to visit you?"

"She works a lot," was Mikel's rather weak reply.

"Be that as it may, we are only a half-hour's drive from DC. She could easily come visit on one of her days off, yet she hasn't. Barring that, there hasn't been _any_ attempted communication on her part since you got here – no letters or packages, no emails, not even a postcard. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

Mikel frowned. "Only that she's been really busy."

The nurse arrived before further discussion could take place. She handed Mawher a small plastic cup containing his medications and a slightly larger Dixie-cup of water. Mikel took a moment to stare at the contents of the med-cup. _Diazepam, zuclopenthixol, and the new one –_ _amphiltreptozine._ The new pill was round, only slightly bigger than an aspirin, and a pale yellow color. He downed the lot with a gulp of the tepid water the nurse had brought. After checking to make sure the pills had actually been swallowed, the nurse left. Mikel tossed the empty cups in the trash bin next to Dr. Andrews' desk.

"You were saying, Mikel?" Dr. Andrews prompted.

"About what?" Mawher cleared his throat. It felt like one of the pills had stuck halfway down.

"About Miss Sciuto, Mikel, and how she's initiated absolutely no contact during your tenure here," the doctor replied. Mikel didn't reply, he simply stared at the surface of the desk. "Look, Mikel – I know you're a smart guy. The IQ test you were given during your first week here proves it. You're smart enough to draw the appropriate conclusions from the existing facts. Why do you persist in lying to yourself?"

Mikel's throat felt like that stuck pill had grown to twice its original size. He worked up as much spit as he could and swallowed hard. "I'm _not_ lying, not to myself and not to anyone else!" his voice was forceful, but not shouting – he'd learned the hard way that shouting didn't do him any good, not when there were two burly orderlies armed with hypos of strong tranquilizers just outside the door.

Dr. Andrews shook his head. "Come on, Mikel. You're smarter than this and we both know it."

Mawher felt as though that damn stuck pill was growing larger by the moment. He coughed and swallowed again, before reaching up to rub at the juncture of his neck to his chest, right over where it felt stuck. He swallowed again. "Maybe –" his voice had taken on a strangled, rasping quality.

"What's wrong?" the psychiatrist asked, realizing that it wasn't simply an emotional reaction his patient was displaying.

Mawher tried to clear his throat again, but only a fraction of the needed air made it through. "Can't…"

The doctor sprang to his feet and hurried around his desk, calling for the orderlies outside.

"Can't… Can't breathe…" Mikel gasped through the pinprick passage in his airway. Though this was true, and was obviously his most-pressing concern at the moment, he could also hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears overlaid with the rapid thrum of his own pulse, and his vision was tunneling in. He held onto consciousness long enough to hear Dr. Andrews call for help and mention 'anaphylactic shock' before everything started slipping away from him.

Just before blackness claimed him, he hoped that maybe _this_ would show Abby just how much he meant to her.

* * *

**A/N2:** With the exception of 'amphiltreptozine' (which I pulled out of the dark recesses of my imagination), all the medications are real – I researched for _hours_ to get this teaser chapter to read 'real'. I hope y'all appreciate the effort!

Please remember to review and let me know what you think!


	2. Frozen

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** It's an hour's drive from Baltimore to DC, just so y'all know (and DC is south and slightly west of Baltimore). And the NCIS-wiki has Tim's birthday as being 9/13/1978, only a few months before Dean's (1/24/1979).

* * *

**Haunted**

_Frozen_

The diner was in better repair than most of the ones the Winchesters had visited over the past few months, but was still recognizably a cheap place to grab greasy food and strong coffee. Of course Sam had disagreed with Dean's choice, but that had more to do with the fact of Dean's 'resurrection' in the eyes of law enforcement (courtesy of Baltimore Homicide) than the fact that it was yet another roadside diner. Of course Dean ignored the suggestion they simply grab some drive-thru and continue heading away from Baltimore – he was _hungry_, damnit!

So, there they sat, just over an hour away from the police who knew without a doubt that Dean Winchester had definitely _not_ died a year earlier in St. Louis. Seemingly unconcerned about the probable manhunt focused on them, Dean was munching his way through a patty-melt with a side of pea soup while scanning through the day's copy of _The Washington Post_. Sitting in the booth across from him, Sam was ignoring his chef's salad while paging through online articles and worrying about that manhunt.

Finishing up with the obituaries, Dean flipped to the local news and glanced out the window. A teal '66 Mustang convertible pulled into the empty spot next to his Impala. _Nice wheels,_ he thought appreciatively. A brunette guy in an expensive suit exited the driver's side and hurried through the light drizzle to the passenger side. He helped another brunette guy – this one about the same age as Dean though not nearly so fit – maneuver a pair of crutches into place before giving him a hand in climbing out of the low-slung car.

The guy with the crutches wore a pair of faded gray sweatpants, a sweatshirt that said 'MIT', and one sneaker. His right foot was wrapped in gauze. _Not broken. Probably has stitches,_ Dean thought, then returned his attention to the newspaper. A few minutes later, a part of his brain not focused on finding their next case was aware that the two men from the Mustang had been seated at the booth right behind him. Another couple of minutes later and Dean's attention was focused more on their conversation than on his fruitless search through the _Post_.

"…not that I don't appreciate it, Tony, but I don't really think you have to stay with me."

"Nonsense, McClumsy – the docs at the ER said you needed to stay with someone tonight and tomorrow. Abby's got all that trace for vice to run, so she can't do it. Ducky's mom's nurse is unavailable, so he's stuck with her today. Ziva's visiting New York while her dad's at the embassy there. Palmer and you aren't exactly close. You said your sister's got a term paper and you didn't want to bug her because of that. And Gibbs is probably working off his bet with Colonel Mann – do _you_ want to interrupt that particular date?"

"No, not really," 'McClumsy' replied with a small laugh. "Okay, I give up."

"Good choice, McStitches." The conversation paused a moment as the two men placed their orders. The driver of the Mustang – _Tony_, Dean corrected himself – reminded the one on the crutches that he needed milk for his antibiotic.

"I know, Tony," Crutches replied, a note of exasperation in his voice. Once the waitress left, he continued, "Ever feel like you're cursed?" Dean's attention sharpened at the word.

Tony chuckled. "Yeah, once in a while. How's the poison ivy, by the way?"

"Nearly gone," Crutches sighed. The sound of a pill-bottle rattling overlaid the words for a moment. "But I'm serious, DiNozzo – I feel _cursed_. First was the poison ivy –"

"Nothing new on that one, McScoutmaster."

"Ha-ha. Seriously, though… Poison ivy, now _this_?"

"Maybe you need to spend a little time with our resident Mossad ninja – Ziva'd be happy to show you how _not_ to drop a knife, I'm sure."

"I didn't drop it!" Crutches protested. "It fell off the counter!"

Tony snorted and Dean was sure, had his back not been to the men, he would have seen an impressive eye-roll at the exclamation. "Sure it did, Tim."

"It did! Some weird draft or something – it got cold just before, like I'd left a window open or something."

At that, Dean adjusted his paper and took a bite of his burger, resettling himself on the booth's bench so that he could see a little of what was happening at the next booth over around the far edge of the newspaper. Crutches was sitting on the bench that shared its back with his own, Tony in the seat across from them. _So, not a curse_, he thought_. Cold spots mean a ghost._

Tim obviously was oblivious to Dean's thoughts and continued talking. "And that was just the latest. I swear I'm cursed – I'm half-tempted to tell Abby and let her deal with it."

"Just the latest? How so? I mean," Tony took a drink of his cola, "I knew about the poison ivy, but other than stabbing yourself in the foot, what else's happened?"

"Oh, just a bunch of little stuff," Tim replied. He paused to swallow down his antibiotic and a pain-pill. "The thermostat in my apartment doesn't seem to work any more; my computer keeps hiccupping; and yesterday, I tripped over _nothing_."

"Guess that explains the bruise on your arm," Tony replied. "Saw it when you were putting on the sweatshirt back in the ER."

"Yeah – I hit the corner of my desk." Tim sighed. "Seriously, Tony – I swear I'm cursed."

Tony shrugged, "If you're serious about that, call Abby when she gets off work tonight, but don't blame me when the estimable Ms. Sciuto has you duct-taped to a chair, listening to Yanni and inhaling patchouli."

"At this point, I'd let her," Tim admitted with a small chuckle. "But she's more likely to use lavender. Patchouli gives her headaches."

As their conversation meandered away from Tim's issues, Dean refocused most of his attention in scanning his paper, interrupting himself only when the two men at the next table got up to leave. Once they were on their way out of the diner, Dean quickly scribbled down all the names he could remember from their conversation, and glanced outside for the license plate number of the Mustang. Just after the teal convertible pulled away, Sam sighed and closed his laptop.

"I don't know about you, but the only thing I could find was a possible black dog down in Greenwood, Mississippi." Sam finally stabbed a forkful of limp lettuce.

Dean shook his head and handed his brother the list he'd made. "Scrap the animal-control, Sammy – I think we got a case right here."

Sam took the list, for once ignoring the nickname. "What?"

"Spirit," Dean replied, then went on to explain his overheard conversation.

Re-opening the laptop, Sam got to work on the names Dean had given him. He was in agreement – a possible vengeful spirit took precedence over animal-control, particularly since the article in question was most likely referencing someone's dumb pet chow or chocolate lab. Though the plate-number Dean had jotted down came back as belonging to a 'Tony DiNardo', Google searches made Sam think that the car's registration was either a serious error or part of some half-baked cover – the two men Dean had overheard were federal agents, after all. The one Dean had taken to calling 'Crutches' was Timothy McGee, the other was Anthony DiNozzo, and they were both listed as being members of NCIS' Major Case Response Team.

That was about as far into the research as Sam got before Dean mentioned finding a place to crash for the night.

* * *

Tony pulled to a stop in the 'visitor' parking place that sat next to the handicapped places closest to the back door of Tim's apartment building. He glanced at McGee and confirmed that his partner was waking up from his unanticipated nap before getting out and giving Tim a hand. Unlike his own place, McGee's didn't have an elevator (never mind the fact that Tony's elevator rarely worked), so Tim didn't mind the help – not _much_, at any rate. They ascended the flight of stairs step by slow step; Tim's right arm over Tony's shoulders, his left using a crutch, while Tony carried the second crutch. After what felt like eternity, they finally arrived on the second floor, sweaty and tired. While Tim dug his keys out of his sweatshirt's pocket, Tony leaned on the hall wall. "I'd insist we go to my place, but I don't think I can get you back out to the car."

Tim let out an amused laugh. "Not to mention up the _five_ flights of stairs to your place." He unlocked the door and took the second crutch from Tony.

"Yeah, there is that," Tony admitted, following Tim into the apartment. "But my place does have its perks – I, at least, have a couch, you know."

Tim hobbled over to his computer and sank into his chair. "I told you that you don't really need to be here, Tony. I'll be fine on my own."

Tony shook his head and stripped off his jacket. He tossed it on the kitchen counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of Tim's tiny living space. "Sorry, McGeek – no can do," he said, heading for the fridge. His eyes lingered on the impressive bloodstain on the wood floor, a yellowish gash in the middle showing where the butcher knife had speared Tim's foot. "Gibbs would find out, just like always, and personally, I do _not_ want _that_ headslap." He helped himself to a beer from the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke for Tim. Handing it to his partner, he watched as Tim booted up the computer. "Shouldn't you be heading to bed?"

Tim nodded. "I will. I just want to check my email first, see if Abby's replied yet."

"Can't you just use your phone?"

"Battery died," Tim replied, holding up the item in question before laying it on a small square that Tony thought looked a little like a mouse pad. To Tony's surprise, Tim's phone powered on and cut to the 'charging' screen. Tony decided not to ask – he wasn't in a mood to hear a long, drawn-out tech ramble just then. "I'll only be a minute," Tim said. "Why don't you get the sleeping bag? It's on the shelf in my closet in the bedroom."

"You got ten minutes on that thing," Tony replied, mostly-teasing, but also serious, "before I unplug it." He ducked into Tim's bedroom and headed first for the bathroom.

Unaware of Tony's side-trip – and uncaring had he known – Tim clicked into his email and saw that he had replies from both his sister and Abby. He opened the one from Sarah and typed a quick reply – yes, he was fine, no, he didn't need her over, and good luck on her paper – before moving on to Abby's. He shivered a little as the temperature began to drop. _I gotta get the super to fix my thermostat,_ he took the time to jot a post-it to that effect before actually reading Abby's email.

In the other room, Tony finished up using the facilities and flushed, then moved over to the sink. _Man, this place has a worse super than my place!_ He'd also noticed the dropping temperature, but the thought was triggered by the lights flickering a couple of times.

Tim had also noticed the flickering lights, but wasn't too worried about it – he had a battery backup for his computer, good for a solid twenty hours at full use. He finished reading Abby's email and hit 'reply'.

Tony finished washing his hands and exited the bathroom. He dug into his partner's closet and easily located the sleeping bag. _I hope this will be enough. It feels more like his heater's blown than a broken thermostat, for crying out loud!_

Back at the computer, Tim had just started his reply to Abby. _Thanks for the worry, Abs, but you really don't need to – it's just a couple of stitches. I'll be stuck on desk-duty for about two weeks, but it's not as serious as it could have been. The knife missed all the bones and most of the tendons. The doctors don't even think I'll need physical therapy, but they're going to check it again in a week. _Tim absently noticed that it was getting colder every moment, but didn't notice the thin sheen of frost accumulating on the edges of his massive computer screen.

In the bedroom, Tony also felt the growing cold and took a moment to check and make sure the window was closed. _It shouldn't be _this_ cold! It's not this cold outside!_ Sure enough, both windows in the bedroom were latched closed and sported no gaps or cracks that Tony could see.

_I'm heading to bed in a couple of minutes, but if you want to drop by tomorrow before work, I'd love to see you,_ Tim typed. The temperature bottomed out and the lights flickered madly. _Something_ arced up through the keyboard, gluing Tim in place. He couldn't blink, he couldn't move his hands, he couldn't make a noise – everything in him just seemed to _freeze_ in a blaze of the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life.

Shivering in his shirtsleeves, Tony grabbed the sleeping bag from where he'd sat it on the bed. Just as he did so, the lights flickered wildly amid an audible buzz, then went out entirely. "Damnit! You sure you want to stay here?" he called out, trying to make his way around the bed to the door in the dim half-light filtering in from the rapidly-darkening rainy sky outside.

There was no reply from Tim. Tony's nostrils picked up the distinctive stench of burned plastic and ozone. "McGee?"

In his haste to get back to the other room, he stubbed his toe on the leg of Tim's bed frame. He cursed. "Hey, McGee!"

Slamming his shoulder into the door frame on his way by, but not really noticing it, he rounded the corner to the much-darker living area. "Tim!"

McGee didn't reply.

* * *

**A/N2:** I've got this one fully outlined – updates will happen as quickly as I can flesh out my 'bare bones' notes. This will also not be a particularly long story – I'm guessing right around 20-30K words, split into 5-6 chapters. However, there is always the possibility for a sequel – it just depends on what my musebunnies want, of course.

The 'mouse pad' Tim sat his phone on is an inductive charger – an item I wouldn't mind owning myself.

Remember to let me know what y'all think.


	3. Introductions All Around

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Oh, I shoulda said this at the end of the last chapter, but this is NOT A DEATH-FIC.

* * *

**Haunted**

_Introductions All Around_

The motel they located was, according to mapquest, only a couple of minutes away from Agent McGee's apartment. It actually was relatively normal, for a change – the only décor was the craptastic landscape centered on the wall between the pair of beds. Sure, it was old and run-down, but it wasn't the worst place they'd ever stayed. Dean took the bed closest to the door and was sorting through his laundry while Sam commandeered the tiny table between Dean's bed and the exterior wall.

"Find any leads on who the ghost might be?"

Sam shook his head, "Not yet. He's got next to no info available on public pages – everything of any use at all is encrypted."

"Shouldn't be too hard for you," Dean replied, tossing a pair of socks on the 'must wash before they start walking on their own' pile. "You can hack anything."

Sam repeated his head-shake, his hair flopped into his eyes. "Not anything, Dean. I've tried twice to get into NCIS' files, but they have the best security I've ever seen. I'm tempted to call Ash in on this."

"This from the guy who regularly gets into the FBI's files?" Dean's skepticism shone through bright and clear.

"Well, look at it this way – the FBI has _thousands_ of employees. NCIS has _maybe_ a couple of hundred. They can afford tighter security." Sam, of course, was unaware that in addition to his logic, NCIS also had one of the best computer programmers to ever come out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who took it on himself to regularly check their firewalls and shore up weak spots.

"Nothing on a 'survived by' search?"

Sam glared at Dean. "I'm not an idiot – that was the first thing I checked. But it came up with nothing, just an obit from about six years ago about his grandfather."

Dean sniff-tested a t-shirt and tossed it on the 'I can still wear it' pile. "If he's so stingy with online info, then how'd you get his address?"

"He's got a sister at Waverly College – she posted it in her blog's address book," Sam explained. "And she updates the blog itself pretty often – nothing in it indicates that she's having any sort of ghost problem, though it's pretty obvious she hates cheerleaders. I don't think the spirit's family-related."

Dean frowned and removed a pair of jeans from his duffle. "He _is_ a fed – think it might be someone he put away?"

"Probably, but in order to check that, I'm going to have to see the NCIS records."

The jeans were muddy and sweaty and caked in some sort of unidentifiable crusty goop around the ankles. _I hope that washes out – we don't have the cash right now for new threads._ "So call Ash." He tossed the jeans onto the 'wash' pile.

Sam checked the time – it was only a quarter to six – then grabbed his cell. It rang four times before Ellen answered. "Harvelle's, this is Ellen."

Sam grimaced. It had only been about two weeks since that hunt in Philly with Jo. "Hey, Ellen. This is Sam."

He needn't have worried. Ellen's smile could be heard over the line. "Hey, honey. How you boys doin'?"

"Pretty good," Sam replied. _If she doesn't bring up the hunt in Philly, I'm not going to remind her!_ "You?"

"Oh, I can't complain too much. You boys haven't heard from Jo, have you?"

Sam shook his head even though he knew she couldn't see him. "No, why?"

"She took off three days ago. I'm sure she's just sulking, but if you do hear from her…"

"We'll let you know," Sam promised. At Dean's questioning look, Sam shook his head and mouthed 'later'. "I'm sure you're right and she'll probably turn up in another day or two."

"I hope so," Ellen replied. "Anyway, what has you callin'?"

"Is Ash around? I got this computer-thing I could really use his help on."

"Yeah, he's around. Hang on a minute." The sound of the receiver being sat down _thunked_ over the line. Faintly, Sam could hear Ellen holler for Ash over the general noise of the bar and jukebox.

A moment later, Ash picked up the phone. "So, I heard you need the services of Dr. Badass."

"Yeah," Sam replied, hoping that Ash was, at least, wearing pants. "I've run into a database I can't get into."

"Private?"

"Federal," Sam said.

"Hmm…" Ash drew the sound out for nearly thirty seconds. "This ain't somethin' that should be discussed in the bar, I think. I'm gonna transfer you over to the cordless – gimme a minute." It took him less time than he'd _hmmed_. "Okay, I'm back." The absence of background noise told Sam he'd withdrawn to his room. "Which database did you need?"

* * *

Adrenaline surged through Tony's veins. His cell was on the floor next to him, speakerphone on, but he was ignoring it after having given the 911 operator McGee's address; he was too busy counting chest-compressions. _Onetwothree…twenty-ninethirty, breath, breath._ Repeat. Knots tied themselves into being between his shoulders. _Onetwothreefour…_ "Come on, Tim!" Sweat beaded on his forehead. _Twenty-ninethirty, breath, breath, onetwothree…_

After what felt like eternity, he heard the ambulance siren outside. He didn't stop, just said, "I can hear the siren now," continuing his mental count, _seventeeneighteen…_

The paramedics showed up as he finished the second breath for this round. Tony quickly scrambled out of their way, scooping up his cell and bruising his abused shoulders on the corner of Tim's writing desk as he did so. He ended the call to 911 and pocketed his phone, feeling helplessly useless now that the professionals had arrived. While they transferred his partner to a gurney, Tony answered what he could of their questions, including that he thought Tim had been shocked by the computer. He followed close on their heels as they exited the apartment, barely remembering to close the door behind him as they hurried down the hall.

Since Tony wasn't family, he wasn't allowed to ride along on the ambulance. Instead, he followed at a distance that would have given even the most die-hard drafter reason for alarm. As the pair of vehicles wove through the scant Monday evening traffic, Tony hit the speed-dial for Gibbs with no thought spared in worry about cutting Gibbs' date with the blonde CID colonel short.

"This better be important, DiNozzo, or so help me –"

"McGee's been electrocuted, Boss," Tony interrupted, his voice clearly showing his worry and unthought fears.

"Which hospital?" Gibbs asked, all business.

"Bethesda," Tony replied.

"I'll be there in twenty." Knowing that Gibbs had already disconnected, Tony absently sat the phone on the passenger seat.

Not long afterwards, he was parking the car in an empty space not too far from the ER entrance. He grabbed his phone again, then sprinted into the hospital. Tim had already been whisked off, but the admitting nurse managed to correctly guess who he was there for and hauled him over to the waiting area with a clipboard of forms. Though he did his best filling out what he could on the paperwork, they didn't do much to side-track his mind from the worry and what-ifs that were running through his brain.

Gibbs showed up two forms into the pile. "How is he?"

Tony looked up and shook his head. "No word yet."

Gibbs took the clipboard from Tony's unresisting hands and sat next to his second-in-command. He could see that DiNozzo was shaken, almost as badly as when Kate had died. It told him far more about McGee's condition than any medical mumbo-jumbo could. "I got these, DiNozzo – how about you track down some coffee?" He knew his SFA did better with some sort of task to focus on, otherwise he'd have not made the suggestion; Tony looked like a light breeze could knock him over.

DiNozzo sprang to his feet and headed straight for the vending machines. Gibbs watched as Tony halted in front of them for a moment before the agent bolted for the men's room. He knew exactly why, of course. Knowing it would be a solid ten minutes before Tony reemerged, he got out his own phone and hit the speed-dial for the director; he knew Jenny would be working late. The call didn't take long – he only needed Shepard to look up the emergency contact from Tim's personnel file, a number he'd never needed to call before.

Heartbeats later, he was calling the number Jenny'd given. The call routed through to voicemail after several rings. "Hi! This is Sarah McGee. I'm either at class, working, or doing homework. Leave me a message and your number if I don't know you, and I'll get back to you soon as I can."

After the _beep_ sounded, Gibbs said, "This is Jethro Gibbs, I work with Tim. He has you listed as his emergency contact. There's been an incident and he's at Bethesda – come to the ER." He left his own number and hung up, hoping she would get the message quickly.

He needn't have worried, she called back only a minute later. He answered his phone with a curt, "Gibbs."

"Oh my god, what's happened to Tim? Was he shot? Why's he in the hospital?" Sarah's voice was fast enough that she could have given an over-caffeinated Abby a run for her money. "Is it some freak complication from the stitches in his foot? Is he hemorrhaging? Is that it? Or was it some sort of delayed-shock?"

"Miss McGee," Gibbs' patience was already stretched too thin – not that it was all that thick to begin with – but his harsh tone managed to make Sarah's babble halt. "Tim hasn't been shot. From what little I know, he was electrocuted."

Sarah gasped. "I'll be there in half an hour." Sudden silence indicated she'd already disconnected the call. Gibbs had to smirk a little at his phone – it was rare that he wound up on the receiving end of his own trademark phone etiquette.

He returned his phone to his jacket pocket, removed his reading glasses, and turned his attention to filling out the paperwork he'd taken from Tony. Unlike DiNozzo, Gibbs made it a point to memorize the necessary information for anyone on his team – in their job, this type of scenario was too big of a hazard _not_ to. Frowning a little, he made a mental note to have the team memorize each other's information, just in case something were to happen when he wasn't available.

Gibbs finished up the forms just as Tony reappeared with two cups of sludge from the vending machine. Neither man commented on how long it had taken, nor on the roll of peppermints Tony opened when he sat back down on the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Gibbs.

Tony sucked on the mint, thankful it was strong enough to mask the flavor of regurgitated onion rings, and ignored his coffee. His mind kept replaying the black-and-white spectral images of seeing Tim frozen in place at his computer in the near-dark of his blacked-out apartment, the stench of ozone and melted plastic heavy in the air; the absolute terror on not finding a pulse; his own heart racing as he countedcountedcounted… _I should have insisted he head straight to bed. I should have told him I'd call Abby for him. I should have taken us back to my place, five flights of stairs or no. I should have…_

His thoughts were interrupted when a pretty brunette wearing pajama bottoms, a faded gray t-shirt, flip-flops, and a pale blue windbreaker stood directly in front of him. _She looks vaguely familiar_, Tony thought, but didn't get the chance to say anything. She was staring directly at Gibbs. "You must be Gibbs."

Tony's boss nodded. "Sarah McGee?" he asked. He would have stood, but she was standing close enough that it wasn't practical.

She nodded and collapsed onto the chair on Gibbs' other side. "Yeah. How's Tim?"

"Don't know yet," Gibbs replied. "They haven't said."

"What happened?" she asked, her voice indicating that she was holding off crying by sheer force of will.

"Ask Tony," Gibbs said, standing. "He was there. I'm going to check with the desk, see if there's any news."

He strode towards the admitting desk, leaving Tony alone with McGee's sister. She repeated her question, but Tony just shook his head. "I don't know… He told you about the accident, right?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, I took him home, and was gonna stay with him – he didn't want to bug you, said you had a term paper due."

She let out a humorless little chortle. "Yeah. British Lit. Chaucer."

"I was getting the sleeping bag; he was on the computer, checking his email. The lights flickered a few times, then went out…" Tony's eyes slipped into focusing on a point somewhere off to Sarah's right.

"Gibbs said he was electrocuted?" Tony's gaze snapped back to her and he nodded. "How is that possible?" she wondered. "Plastic isn't a conductor! Sure, I'm not the science nut that Timmy is, but I do know that much, and all the parts he'd be using to check email are all made of plastic!"

"I don't know how it happened," Tony replied. "But it did – some sort of freak power-surge or static or something. I bet Tim'll know…" the 'if he wakes up' went unsaid.

Sarah still heard it, though. The worry hit a high-note and the last of her resolve crumbled; she closed her eyes and the tears she'd been denying wormed their way between her lids, wetting her lashes. Tony slid over into Gibbs' vacant seat and put an arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered. "I shoulda insisted on my place or made him go straight to bed or I don't know! Something!"

Gibbs returned a moment later. Sarah pried her eyes open and looked up at him. "What?" she asked.

"They've got him stabilized," Gibbs reported. "But they don't know how bad the damage is just yet."

"He's alive?" Sarah couldn't quite believe it.

Gibbs nodded. "He is. They're running more tests right now, but there wasn't any other intel available. The nurse said the doctor would be out when they were done, but couldn't say how long it will be." He sat in Tony's abandoned chair since Sarah was occupying the last one on their row.

They waited in tense silence, broken only sporadically by Tony's nearly-inaudible guilty mutterings before a doctor arrived. "Timothy McGee?" he called out from the doors that said _Authorized Personnel Only_ in large red block letters.

Tony, Sarah, and Gibbs stood. "Family?" The doctor asked, walking closer to the trio.

"I'm his sister," Sarah replied. The doctor beckoned her aside and spoke with her in a voice too low for Tony to hear, despite how he stretched his ears. Sure, it was technically against the law – HIPAA and whatnot – but he just couldn't bring himself to care. It turned out to be rather moot. Sarah thanked the doctor, who disappeared back through the double-doors, then hurried back to Tony and Gibbs.

"The doctor thinks he's going to be fine," she said. "He said he couldn't find any evidence of damage to Tim's heart, though he does have a couple of cracked ribs – he said that was because of the CPR."

Tony blanched and muttered an oath that normally would have resulted in a swat from his boss. As it was, Gibbs was beat to the punch – literally – as Sarah socked him in the fleshy part of his upper arm. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't you do that!" she snapped at him. "Don't you blame yourself! The doctor said you saved his life with the CPR, so don't you feel guilty for a couple of broken bones! The damn bones will heal."

Tony glanced at his boss, unsure if he should be expecting similar treatment or not. Gibbs simply gave him a cockeyed smile. "I'd listen to the girl, DiNozzo – she sounds like she knows what she's talking about."

"Duly noted," Tony dryly replied.

"Anyway, they're moving Tim to a room right now, but they don't expect him to wake until the morning. I'm going to sit with him." She provided the room number. "Thanks," she said, looking at her brother's partner. "Thank you for saving my brother." To Tony's surprise, Sarah pulled him into a hug that likely bruised his own ribs. She released him and bolted for the elevators, intent on making it to her brother's room.

"You should go home, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "I'll stay with Sarah and call if there's any developments."

"Thanks, Boss, but I'll stay, too." Tony started to head for the elevators, but Gibbs' hand on his shoulder halted him in his tracks. "Boss?"

"It wasn't a suggestion, DiNozzo. Go home."

Tony glanced at the clock behind the admitting desk. It was closing in on three in the morning. The windows that overlooked the ambulance bay acted as mirrors and revealed just how rumpled and tired he looked. _I actually look more tired than I feel. I didn't know that was possible._ He nodded. "On it, Boss," he said, then headed for the doors. He knew Gibbs would call if he was needed, and further knew that Gibbs was right – it had been a _long_ day, one of the _longest_ in his life, and his bed was calling his name.

* * *

Back at the same diner from the day before, over pancakes and sausage, Dean and Sam flipped through the handful of printouts of cases where ghost-logic might have lead to painting a target on one Timothy McGee, NCIS Special Agent. "The only one that really makes sense is this John Benedict guy," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-chip flapjacks.

Sam mentally sighed for the quadbillionth time at Dean's lack of table-manners and nodded in agreement. "I agree," he said, taking a sip of his orange juice. "But if it _is_ Benedict, then why show now? Why not right after he was killed?"

"Beats me," Dean replied. "But he's the best of a bad lot." He swallowed and cut a chunk of sausage. Gesturing with his fork, he asked, "You didn't find anything on the apartment building, did you?"

"Nothing," Sam replied. "Even though, from what you overheard, all the incidents seem to be localized there, I couldn't find a single outside reference to anything even remotely spirit-related. The building itself is built on what was once a pasture – never used as a burial ground or as an execution lot – and the only deaths to happen there…" he paused long enough to shuffle through the mess of papers they brought in with them. "Ah, here it is. The building was built in 1968 on an old pasture, like I said. In 1975, one of the tenants died of a heart-attack at the ripe old age of ninety-two. In '88, another resident committed suicide on her fortieth birthday, but that's it."

"Either one of them live or die in McGee's apartment?"

Sam started shaking his head even before the question was completed. "Nope. The suicide was on the sixth floor – McGee lives on the second – and the heart-attack was on the first."

Dean sighed and worked on his breakfast for a minute. His instincts were screaming at him that it was a legit hunt, but none of the info they'd located so far had them saying 'that's the one'. He was growing frustrated. "Sounds like we're gonna hafta drop by." Sam frowned, deep lines furrowing his forehead. _Bitchface number seven,_ Dean mused. _And it's only eight in the morning. Yeah, this is gonna be a freakin' _great_ day._

"You sure about that?" Sam needlessly asked.

Dean nodded emphatically. "Yeah. We're gettin' nowhere on the records. Maybe it ain't even connected to _him_. Could be he wound up with a haunted object."

"Fabulous," Sam groaned. "Another search for a needle in a stack of needles."

Dean glanced at the info-sheet they'd printed from the website for McGee's building. "Hey, look at the upside, Sammy – how long can it possibly take to sweep seven hundred square feet?" He wolfed down the last of his sausage and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. "We just need to wait for him to leave for work and we're home-free."

Sam had to admit that Dean had a point. "Guess so," he allowed. "And it's _Sam_."

They finished their breakfasts and quickly packed the mess of print-outs before heading to McGee's building. Once they parked in one of the 'visitor' spaces, they briefly debated how to go about determining if McGee was home. Once the cover was picked, they headed inside, upstairs, and knocked firmly on McGee's door. They waited a couple of minutes, but there was no answer. Sam knocked again, the knuckles of his left hand rapping sharply against the steel door.

The next-door neighbor poked his head out. "If you're lookin' for the damn writer, he was taken by the EMTs last night. I hope he choked on his damn paper-shredder." The guy was about thirty-five, with disheveled dark hair, an a chubby, unshaven face floating atop a red bathrobe and sporting the ruddy complexion common to chronic drinkers, but before either Winchester could reply, the man slammed his door.

Dean and Sam exchanged a look before Dean reached down and turned the knob. The door opened easily and the pair stepped into a tiny apartment light brightly by morning sunshine. The thick, cloying odor of melted plastic, scorched electronics, and ozone permeated the air. "You get the feeling we're too late?" Dean wondered.

"Maybe," Sam allowed. "I'm gonna see if any of the other neighbors are home, see if any of them know what happened."

Dean nodded and removed his EMF reader from his pocket and switched it on.

* * *

Tony hadn't gotten home until just after four in the morning. At that point, he'd been awake a full twenty-four hours, but it had still taken him a full hour to fall asleep. The sleep itself had been far from restful – he'd had numerous bad dreams that bordered on nightmares. He counted himself lucky that none of the images stuck around long enough to be recalled once he startled awake at eight. He quickly showered and dressed, then called Gibbs. There wasn't any new information and Tim hadn't woken yet. Not hungry in the slightest, Tony stared at the contents of his fridge for several minutes before deciding to make himself useful. _I'll clean up the mess at Tim's,_ he decided. _Reset the breakers, get him some clothes. Know I didn't lock the door, didn't have the keys, so I'll need to find them and make sure nothing's been stolen._ Still compiling a mental to-do list, he grabbed his old OSU letterman's jacket and headed out.

Morning rush was a bigger headache than normal; it took Tony twice as long as usual to get to Tim's place in Silver Spring. He pulled into the parking lot, parked next to a fully-restored '67 Impala, only to find that Abby had beaten him there. A jolt of panic hit him when he realized that he hadn't called her last night. _Did Gibbs?_ One look at her pleased face told him no, no one had contacted her about the most recent development in the life of Timothy McGee, Bad-Luck Magnet.

Tony climbed out of his car while Abby hurried over, carrying Bert and a Tupperware container full of what Tony assumed to be chicken soup. "Hey, Tony!" Somehow, she managed to 'hug' him with just her chin. Backing up a step she managed to get a good look at him. "What's wrong?"

Tony wilted a little and closed his eyes. "Tim's not here, Abs…"

"What? Did he stay at your place? Your elevator had better be working in that case, mister! The last thing Timmy needs is a bunch of stairs with stitches in his foot!"

Tony shook his head and leveled a glare at Abby. "No, Abs! He didn't stay with me last night – he's in Bethesda!"

Abby's eyes grew almost comically large. "_What_?"

"We came back here last night after catching dinner at Palmira's. He was checking his email… I was getting the sleeping bag out of the closet… The lights started flickering, then they went out…"

"What happened to Timmy, Tony?"

"He was electrocuted," Tony said.

"No!" Abby denied the very idea with every ounce of her being. "That's not possible!"

Tony cut her off before she could say any more. "It _did_, Abs. I was there… I had to call 911, do CPR… Hell, I broke his damn ribs! He's in the ICU at Bethesda right now, his sister and Gibbs are waiting to see if he'll wake up, and I'm just trying to find _something to keep me from going completely nuts_!" The last bit was shouted. He hadn't intended on saying so much, but it wound up having a positive outcome: Abby's own panic derailed itself on seeing Tony's.

She squared her shoulders, promised herself that she could fall apart after she got Tony to Gibbs, and said, "Come on, then. Let's go put this in the fridge for later and get Tim some clean clothes for _when_ he wakes up." The slight stress she put on 'when' told Tony that he'd said _way_ more than he'd intended.

"Okay," he managed, and held the door open for Abby.

* * *

The EMF gave out low-level readings throughout the tiny apartment, spiking to full over the bloodstain in the kitchen, the handle of the knife in the kitchen sink, and when held in close proximity to the fried computer. Black goo caked the crevasses between the keyboard's keys. "Ah, crap," Dean muttered, running a finger through the goo. _Ectoplasm. I've only seen this a couple of times – most recently in Philly. I really hope this isn't the start of a trend!_ His close angle to the computer screen revealed smudges on the monitor. He backed away a step and leaned to one side. He heard Sam return while he was puzzling out the smears.

"Whacha find?" he asked without looking from the black computer screen.

"Just what the neighbor knew – McGee was taken away by ambulance at about eight-thirty last night. You find anything here?"

Dean nodded and held up his ectoplasm-smeared fingers, the EMF reader still grasped loosely in his other hand. "Yep – we got gunk. Definitely a pissed-off ghost. EMF's off the charts on the computer, spikes on the knife in the kitchen sink, too, and over the blood in there. There's something written on the computer screen, too, but I can't quite make it out."

Sam peered at the screen, then sighed and leaned down. He exhaled over the smears. The resulting condensation revealed block letters.

_SHES MINE_

"Alright," Sam said. "Who's whose?"

"Hell if I know," Dean replied. "But that most likely means that this ghost ain't tied to McGee directly. That sounds like those dicks in bars who break noses when you hit on their girl, even if she looks like she's there alone," he let out a hollow little laugh. "Hell, even if she isn't their girl no more."

"Could be. Do we know if McGee is seeing anyone?"

"Nothin' came up in what we looked at so far. You find anything to indicate otherwise?"

Sam shook his head, but before he could say anything, the door burst open. "Freeze, federal agent!" The brothers spun around at the noise, but then followed the instruction, holding their hands up to show they weren't armed. "Who are you?" Dean recognized him as being 'Tony' from the diner. Sam recognized him from the photos he'd located in his search for intel on Tim McGee. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Look," Dean pasted on his best smile, "we were just –"

A tall goth woman peeked around Agent DiNozzo and interrupted his latest line of bull with one question, "Is that an EMF reader?"

Dean glanced over at Sam. A twitch of an eyebrow told him what he needed to know. Simultaneously, and with identical levels of apprehensive curiosity, the Winchesters replied, "Yeah, why?"

Recognition dawned on Tony as Abby started babbling in her signature style. _These guys were in the next booth during dinner last night._ "…sorta cool that you obviously made it yourself. What did you use? An old cassette player with an AM/FM radio? It's got too many transistors and extra circuits to just be the radio part. But how come you're here? Timmy's place doesn't have any ghosts – I should know, I checked right after he moved in." In her enthusiasm – which was obviously doing double-duty as an outlet for her worry about McGee – she stepped in front of Tony, saying, "Put that away, Tony, before someone gets hurt."

"Abby!" he groaned, but did lower his Sig. He didn't safety it, but he did lower it. "What are they doing here? Do you know these guys?"

"Nope," she chirped. "But they're obviously looking for ghosts. There aren't many uses for an EMF reader, after all." She returned her attention to the pair of extremely cute ghost-hunters in front of her. "Well?" she prompted, tapping one foot impatiently.

Dean and Sam exchanged another glance. The look on Dean's face clearly said '_I got nothin' on this. You?_' Sam's reply was equally befuddled. Never before had either Winchester been confronted by someone who not only recognized them for what they were but who was obviously not a fellow hunter themselves. Sam managed to recover his voice first. "You're right," he managed. "We're looking for the ghost that caused this," he stepped to one side to reveal the smear-writing (now faded to its original illegibility) and the ectoplasm-choked keyboard.

Abby didn't notice the writing, but zeroed in on the keyboard. She strode over and nudged the brothers to either side. "What on earth…?" she ran a finger through the accumulated gunk. "This is… so not plastic."

"It's ectoplasm," Dean said. "Tells us that the ghost that did this is one angry son of a bitch, more so than most. You know the guy that lives here, right?" he asked, momentarily forgetting the presence of the federal agent.

Abby was enthralled with the odd, sticky substance and immediately started looking for something in which to collect a sample. "Yeah, I do," she replied, heading for the bar of counter. She sat the soup and stuffed hippo on it, moving aside Tony's jacket from the night before. She wriggled a little and removed her backpack-purse. Inside, she had a small test-tube of her homemade perfume.

"You know of anyone close to him who died recently?" Sam asked, one eye on the agent, the other following the goth in the miniskirt and platform boots.

"Uh… No," she replied, retrieving her tube and moving around to the kitchen side of the room. She frowned at the dried blood on the floor. "Oh, Timmy," she whispered, then used the sink to rinse out the vial. "No one recent, at any rate. There was that undercover cop who got shot, but that was last year. If he was the ghost, then wouldn't he have shown up before now?"

"Possibly," Sam agreed. "Do you know exactly what the date was? Sometimes, they surface on anniversaries."

Using a paper towel to dry the vial, she thought hard for a moment. "I think it was the twenty-fifth. Yeah, it definitely was the twenty-fifth of last November – I remember it was the day after Thanksgiving."

"Too early for the anniversary of his death, then," Sam said.

She returned to Tim's computer desk and grabbed a paperclip. She unfolded it and then used it to scoop a generous portion of the ectoplasm into the vial.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Collecting a sample. I want to see what it's made from," Abby replied.

"How are you going to do that?" This time Sam asked the question.

"Oh, I'm a forensic analyst. I figure I'll run it through my mass spectrometer." Abby capped the vial and slid it back into her purse.

Dean chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. "Wow. I gotta admit, you're taking this a whole lot better than most people we deal with."

Abby smiled at him and shrugged. "I grew up in New Orleans. Heard a bunch of rumors about people like you."

"People like us?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Abby nodded. "You're hunters, right? You tend to congregate at The Tapped Casket on Bourbon Street. I bartended there when I was a junior in college."

Dean's face lit up at the mention of his favorite pub in all of Louisiana. "Seriously?"

Abby nodded again. "Absolutely. Couldn't help but overhear a few… _interesting_ things. I'm sure you can imagine."

"I'm sure I can, too," Dean replied, still grinning. "Hey – you got a cell phone?"

Abby again nodded. "Yep." She retrieved it.

Dean borrowed it long enough to enter in his own number. "Let me know what you find out, yeah? All I really know about ectoplasm is that it takes a seriously torqued-off spirit to make it and that it burns like kerosene, but with a purple flame."

"Really? Purple flame?" Abby's scientific curiosity was running away with her.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Purple. Not the bluish color that some inks have, but a real _purple_-purple."

"Like lilacs or more like violets?" Abby asked for clarification.

"Which ones are the little short ones that get mowed with the lawn?"

"Violets."

Dean snapped his fingers. "Yahtzee. Those. Dark, shading to white-ish at the tip of the flame."

"Dude, when did you _burn_ ectoplasm?" Sam cut in.

"You were at school, Sammy, and I was bored – the damn thing only manifested during the new moon. Dad had me sit on it while he took care of somethin' else a couple of counties over."

Sick of being ignored, Tony spoke up, "Hey! Remember me? Federal agent with the gun?" he pointed to himself with his free hand, then pointed to the two interlopers. "Trespassers. Leave now, or I'll shoot you."

Dean's temper spiked. "Hey, look buddy – I don't care what _you_ do to earn a living. I'm doing _my job_ here!"

"Yeah, right," scorn dripped from Tony's words. "Hunting ghosts? Please!"

"I can prove it," Dean retorted. "Last night, you brought this McGee guy home, right? He sat down at his computer. The temperature dropped, probably enough to make frost start collectin' on the glass surfaces. Lights started flickering. The air started to smell like ozone – and if you don't know what that stench is, it's the same smell as just before a big snowstorm. Then the damn ghost attacked. Judging by the fried geek-station here, it probably electrocuted him. It left behind the ectoplasm and the message on the screen. Am I right?"

Tony's expression told them that he was spot-on, but refused to acknowledge it. The agent simply closed the short distance between him and the trio loitering in front of Tim's computer. He grabbed one 'hunter' with each hand, working around the pistol he still carried, and escorted them to the door. "I don't know how you knew all that, but I swear if I see you here again, I'll put a bullet through the both of you and I won't even complain about the paperwork!"

He shoved them into the hallway, then slammed the door behind them. "Well, _that_ went well," Sam said sarcastically. Dean just grinned. "What?" Sam asked.

"Could've gone worse." Sam shrugged and followed Dean to the staircase.

Back inside the apartment, Abby had leaned close to the screen and seen the message mentioned. At the sound of the slamming door, she spun around and glared at Tony. Tony put the safety back on his gun, then returned it to his holster. "What?"

"They're just trying to help, DiNozzo." Tony winced at her tone. _I don't think she's ever been this angry with me, not even when we first met._ She grabbed her purse off the counter and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door herself on her way out. "Well, that could have gone better," Tony muttered to himself.

Abby ran to catch up with the hunters. "Hey! Wait a minute!" she yelled down the stairs. The two men waited by the door to the parking lot.

"Whacha need?" Dean asked.

"Look, I'm sorry about Tony – he's not the most… open of individuals. Besides, he's really protective of the team, and Tim got hurt yesterday afternoon, and now this? I'm sure he's blaming himself. He always does when something happens to one of us. You should have seen him after Kate died," her perpetually cheerful demeanor wilted at the name.

"Don't worry about it," Sam replied. "His reaction is more like what we normally see. We're used to it. Nobody really _wants_ to know what we do, after all."

A faint line of anger appeared between her eyebrows. "That's not true! I've _always_ believed in this stuff! Why do you think I wound up bartending at the Casket?"

Sam smiled a little. "Okay, okay – so not _everyone_. But you're still a member of a minority so tiny that as of right now, you're the only one we've met. And we meet a _lot_ of people."

"How many?" she asked, blatantly curious.

"We do a case once, sometimes twice a week. About half the time, we can get it done without involving civilians," Dean answered the question. "The rest of the time, it's usually only one or two people who wind up having this crap thrown at them."

"How long have you been doing this?"

Their answer was once again simultaneous, "All our lives."

Before Abby could ask any more questions, her phone rang. She hadn't yet put it back in her purse, so she hit 'answer' and held it to her ear. "What, Tony?" her anger at her friend still hadn't faded. Her expression melted from annoyed to frightened in half a heartbeat. "I'm going there now." She ended the call. "Tim's had a setback at the hospital – one of the monitors he was hooked up to shorted out!"

She made to push past them, but Sam made her pause with his unbroken hand lying gently on her shoulder. "Hey, you find any ectoplasm there, you call us. Dean gave you his number. Call if you see any flickering lights, or if you smell ozone. Salt can chase it off temporarily, but if this thing is manifesting during the day, it won't keep it gone for long."

"Does it matter if it's iodized or not?"

Sam chuckled and shook his head. "Not at all – any salt will do."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Iron will work, too, but it has to be _iron_, steel doesn't work," Dean said.

Abby frowned at that. "I don't think they'll let me in to see him with a fireplace poker… I've got an antique set of cutlery, made of wrought iron, but I doubt I can get those into Bethesda, either."

Sam and Dean echoed grimaces at the name of the military hospital in Bethesda. "Yeah, you're probably right on that one," Sam said. "So, better stick to the salt. If you can, make a thick ring of it around his bed. Include whatever machines they've got him hooked to."

Abby nodded thoughtfully, "I see… Matches up with the stories Grammie Sciuto used to tell – a spirit has to count the grains before they're allowed to cross, and since they can't touch it, it's a nearly-impossible task." She started to push past them again before stopping herself. She gave them a double-hug, one arm around each of them, and landed quick kisses on Dean's left cheek and Sam's right. "You two be careful. Call me if you need anything – I'll send a text when I get to Tim's room so you've got my number."

"You be careful, too," Sam replied.

After Abby disappeared through the door, the Winchesters simply took a moment to stare at one another. "That was different," Dean commented.

"Agreed," Sam replied. "Come on, let's see if we can't figure out what 'SHES MINE' means."

* * *

**A/N2:** Okay, okay, I admit it – one of the reasons I set this when I did is because Ash has always been one of my all-time-favorite SPN characters. I hated that they killed him off at the end of season two.

In case you didn't know, when I mentioned 'drafting' (while Tony was following the ambulance), I was referring to the usage that means someone following a large vehicle extremely closely (it's a trick to save on gas-mileage, illegal in most states, and highly-dangerous as it usually involves riding less than twenty or thirty feet behind a tractor-trailer rig).

And I'm not too sure I managed to get the emotional aspect of this chapter right – please let me know if I was successful in making you feel what the characters were feeling. Thanks in advance.

**Edit 09/27/2012: ** Squirl pointed out to me that Bethesda and Walter Reed are not interchangeable. I knew this, but had a brain-fade moment when writing the chapter. This should now be corrected to show just Bethesda. Thanks for the reminder!


	4. Belief

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** Unless the next chapter gets away from me (which is always a possibility), the longest chapter for this story was the last one – the rest shouldn't be more than 3K or so (but I have been wrong before, so I'm not promising anything). This one's a little shorter, but I don't think anyone can complain too hard – not with how fast I'm getting this posted. Anyway, happy reading!

* * *

**Haunted**

_Belief_

It was closing in on one o'clock in the afternoon and Sam and Dean were buried in research, but having no luck sorting out just what 'SHES MINE' might mean. McGee's mom and sister were both fine, he didn't appear to be dating anyone (though they needed to double-check that with someone who actually knew the man, preferably Abby), and there hadn't been anything odd happening at McGee's place of work, either. They thought they might be on to something when Sam dug up the fact that the previous two tenants of McGee's apartment had been women, but that line died out nearly as quickly as they began looking into it – the manifestations had begun, so far as they could tell, only within the past couple of days.

Sam sighed in frustration and closed the laptop. "You find anything?" he asked, his voice low.

Dean switched off the microfiche viewer and shook his head. "If we hadn't seen the ectoplasm, I'd be tempted to write this one off as a bust. We don't have enough info about McGee to get anywhere."

"Think we should head back to his place, see if we can't find out if he's dating someone?"

Dean started to nod, but was interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered without looking at the caller-ID. "Yeah?"

"Dean?" It was Abby.

"Yeah. What's up?"

She sounded upset, but not falling apart. "I found more goo in Tim's room, but I can't get more than a couple of minutes with him at a time. There hasn't been anything hinky, though, not since about half-past nine this morning."

"Hmm…" Dean thought furiously for a moment.

"That a good 'hmm' or a bad one?"

"Just a 'hmm'. Could be the son of a bitch is havin' trouble with the new location – everything we can find so far says that whoever this guy was, he'd been showin' up in McGee's apartment and nowhere else."

"What was this morning, then?"

"Probably marking his time of death – most spooks get a minor power-spike at times like that. Remember what we said about anniversaries? Might have been a little one – a week, a month."

"A year?"

Dean shrugged. "Could be. We don't know enough about it yet to say for sure, but I doubt it's the year – the spikes get bigger the more time goes by. McGee mention anything…" he cast about for the right word before settling on the one Abby had just used, "hinky goin' on that far back?"

"No," Abby replied, frustration evident in her voice. "He hasn't."

"There ya go. Right now, me an' Sam are tryin' to figure out who the spook is – he left behind a message written on the computer screen."

"I saw. 'SHES MINE'."

"Yeah. Take it you saw?"

"Yeah," Abby replied. "Any idea what it means?"

"Not yet. How about you?"

"Well," Abby drew the word out. "I don't think it's referring to anyone in Tim's family – his mom lives in San Diego with his dad. His little sister is fine – I can see her sitting in the waiting room right now. One of his grandmas died when he was little and the other one is in Portugal, I think, guest-lecturing at a university there."

"You know if he's dating anyone?" Dean asked.

"He hasn't said, but even though he's the kind who doesn't kiss-and-tell, he also isn't able to keep something like that to himself, so… No, I don't think he's dating anyone. He really hasn't, not seriously, not since we broke up."

Dean's instincts sat up and started screaming at him. He kept his suspicions out of his voice, though. "Hey, can you meet us?"

"Sure. I'm not doing anything here but taking up space. Where?"

"There's this diner about a mile, mile-and-a-half from McGee's place –"

"Palmira's. I can be there in about half an hour or so."

Dean smiled, "Okay. See you then." After goodbyes, Dean returned the phone to his pocket. "That was Abby – she's gonna meet us back at the diner."

Sam started packing his things. "How's McGee?" he asked, wedging the laptop into his bag.

Dean shrugged. "She didn't really say, but I assume there hasn't been any change from earlier. She _did_ say that the spook hadn't shown up again."

"And you're thinking it was a time-of-death peak," Sam double-checked where he'd been sitting to see if he forgot anything.

"Yeah." Dean did likewise, then the pair made their way out of the branch library. Once they stepped out into the weak November sunlight, Dean continued, "I didn't tell her, but I think she's the 'SHE' in question. She and McGee used to date."

"Got anything more than that to go on?" Sam asked, leaning against the passenger side of the Impala.

Dean shook his head. "Not really, but you gotta admit – it's more than we could find on our own. She said that he hasn't really been serious about anyone since they broke up."

"She say how long that's been?"

"Nope," Dean replied, then got into the car. Sam followed a moment later.

Midday traffic was light – it was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the school rush – and they made good time to Palmira's diner. Abby still managed to beat them; the hospital was closer time-wise, being just off the freeway, same as the diner itself. Dean parked next to her cherry-red hot rod and climbed out. She was leaning against her car, a black lace parasol shading her from the sun. "Nice ride," he said. "Not quite what I'd pictured, but still pretty cool."

Abby smiled at him. "Thanks! I used to drive a hearse, but it died – no pun intended – and it would've cost more to get it running again than this baby cost me." She nodded a greeting at Sam and cast her eyes over Dean's car. "Yours is nice, too – newer than I like, but still solid."

Dean laughed. "You're the first person I've met – ever – who used 'new' in describing my baby here."

Sam just shook his head at the pair. _Not what I thought was Dean's type, but that just might be the clothes._ He followed them as they chatted about cars in general on the way into the diner.

Once ensconced in the same booth the brothers had used the night before, Dean wedged up against the window, Abby taking the aisle seat, and Sam across from them, they waited until after the waitress took their drink orders before getting down to business. Sam cleared his throat. "So," he said. "You and McGee used to date?"

Abby nodded. "Yeah, we did. Broke it off about a year, maybe a year-and-a-half ago, though."

Sam could admit, even if only to himself, that he didn't have quite the instincts that his brother did, but Abby was their only solid lead so far. "Anyone close to _you_ die recently?" he asked.

She started to answer in the negative, then stopped. All traces of color drained from her face. "No," she whispered.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"Mikel Mawher," she said.

"Who?" Sam asked, digging into his satchel for a pen and his notebook.

"My crazy psycho stalker-ex." Abby looked from Sam to Dean and back. "We went out for all of two weeks, and he seemed to think that it meant we were destined to be together. He slashed my tires, stole my mail – I had to get a restraining order against him! Then, when I thought he'd finally managed to get a freakin' clue, he started in on me again. Apparently, he'd been following me for _months_. Felt it was his job to 'keep me safe'," she used air-quotes around the words, "when he saw I was being followed by someone else!"

"Who was the someone else?" Sam asked.

Abby shook her head, "Oh, just some stupid hit-guy that screamed like a girl and was hired by a moron who never showered, but that part's not important. When the team was trying to figure out what was happening, everything kept circling back to Mikel – he even followed me to Tim's place."

"What happened to him?" Dean wondered, inwardly curious as to just what sort of weird crap happened to the girl next to him that she could consider a hit-man to be 'just some guy'.

"Gibbs, Tony, and Tim all signed paperwork having him committed – well," she clarified, "they had him taken in for psychiatric evaluation – Mawher wound up committing _himself_ with how freak-ass crazy he was."

"And he died recently?" Sam asked.

Abby nodded. "Yeah. Much as I didn't want it, Mikel had me as 'next of kin' on all his paperwork. They sent me a death-notice about two weeks ago. He had an allergic reaction to his meds." She let out a helpless little laugh. "You know what really sucks? At the time, I was relieved – he wasn't a threat any more. Shows what I know, don't it?"

Sam reached across the table and covered her hands with one of his own. Dean simply wrapped an arm around her back, resting one hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it," Dean said. "From what you've told us, it sounds like we've got the right guy now, and me an' Sammy will take care of it."

* * *

Gibbs had headed in to work, primarily to file the paperwork to get his team on indefinite stand-down, at least until Tim woke and a closer guess could be made, but to also fill Jenny in on what had happened and bring Ducky up to speed. He'd considered calling Ziva, too, but didn't want to intrude on her time with her father – besides, she'd be back on Thursday. No sense in rushing her when there wasn't anything that could be done but sit-and-wait.

Sarah had ducked into the waiting area, temporarily trading places with Tony, while she called her school and got some much-needed extensions to some of her homework deadlines. Tony sat in a surprisingly comfortable chair next to his partner, letting the various noises of the hospital machinery reassure him that Tim was still alive. The hospital staff was still looking into the ECG that had shorted-out, trying to find out why. On anyone else, it would have just given them a jolt, but considering why Tim was there to begin with…

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Come on, Tim – this isn't right, you know," he said. "You're the computer-guy. You shouldn't be _here_." It was the same old thing he'd been saying each time Sarah'd allowed him time to sit with Tim, and produced the same results – nothing. Giving up, he closed his eyes, and leaned forward, resting his elbow on the edge of Tim's bed, his hand supporting his forehead.

He didn't see the lights start to flicker.

Nor the thick tendril of malevolent smoky-grey ooze through the gaps in the Venetian blinds covering the window.

He breathed deep and caught the sharp tang of ozone in the air, just as his skin checked in with his brain and said, 'Hey, dumbass, it's getting really cold in here, don't you think?'

Tony's hand dropped and his eyes snapped open.

Standing at the foot of Tim's bed was a three-dimensional shadow, a negative-image of a man.

"What the –" though Tony could have sworn he'd shouted, the sound itself was barely audible to his own ears.

The image flickered out, then suddenly reappeared right in front of Tony. "She's mine!" it hissed, the voice colder than the air and full of malicious venom.

Tony startled backwards, knocking over the chair in which he'd sat, his elbow catching the corner of the metal tray which contained the remains of Sarah's lunch – an empty plastic wrapper from a tuna sandwich and an equally-empty cardboard fry-basket – along with a pair of salt'n'pepper shakers. The pepper shaker fell to the floor and rolled somewhere under the bed, but the salt shaker was launched into the air amid the metallic clatter of the tray itself hitting the floor.

It spun through the air, spraying its contents every which way, before bouncing off the blinds and landing upright on the floor with a comical little wobble, like a gymnast with an iffy dismount.

During the hail of salt crystals, the negative-man disappeared in a puff of smoke, like the exhale of a smoker run in reverse. The lights quit flashing, the temperature returned to normal.

The sound of pounding feet heralded the arrival of Sarah and a crew of hospital personnel. Tony, still not a hundred percent sure what had just happened, explained it away to their satisfaction – he'd just knocked over the chair and tray by accident, nothing to worry about, no damage done. After setting the chair back into its upright position, Sarah resumed her post. "I'm gonna duck out for some air," Tony told her. "Call me if anything changes, okay?"

"Will do," Sarah replied.

He managed to hold off on calling until he was seated in his car, his pulse still hammering in his ears. He hit the right speed-dial and waited for a moment.

"Tony? Something wrong?" Abby's voice was enough to soothe his nerves.

"Uh… I don't think those guys were crazy after all, Abs – I just saw your ex."

* * *

**A/N2:** I think y'all will be happy to know that I'm kicking around the idea for a couple more stories in this 'verse, but I could do with a little input – most of ya know I don't write romance well (or often), so please no pairing-suggestions. Other than that, though, I wouldn't mind having some ideas thrown my way (particularly if it's _not_ a creature already dealt with on SPN – no werewolves or vampires and such – something new would be nifty, though).

Remember to lemme know what y'all think!


	5. Poof

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** I made up the Maryland State Psychiatric Institute – sorry if it exists in the real world unlike how I've depicted it (at least you know why).

* * *

**Haunted**

_Poof_

They'd finished up their lunches by the time Tony arrived at the diner. He squeezed in next to Sam. "Okay, so… I'm not all that fond of the taste of shoe leather, so can we take it as understood I was an ass and let it go at that?" was the first thing he said after joining them.

Abby chuckled and Dean and Sam traded a quick look that indicated they were also amused. "So, you saw him, then?" Sam said.

Tony shook his head. "You know, a big part of me really _really _wants to say, 'no, I don't know _what_ I saw,' but…"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "There's that 'but' that keeps poppin' up. You saw what you saw. Welcome to our world."

"Is Tim okay?" Abby finally managed to get a word in.

Tony nodded. "Yeah, he's no worse, at any rate."

The waitress dropped by their table and refilled coffee cups, bringing a fresh one for Tony. After she'd left, Abby and Tony faced the Winchesters, who were having a silent conversation of their own. "What's next?" Abby asked.

Sam made an 'after you' gesture to his brother. Dean shrugged. "Now, we need to find out where this Mawher guy is buried – if he's buried. Hope he's buried, if not this gets a whole helluva lot more complicated."

"And we sort of need to hurry," Sam added, a sour look on his face. "This makes two daytime manifestations – he's growing in power. As you might imagine, the more powerful a spirit becomes, the harder they are to get rid of."

"Why is he getting more powerful?" Abby asked, obviously worried and thinking, on some level, _If he gets strong enough, will I be next?_

Sam and Dean both shrugged. "There really isn't any way to tell for sure," Dean explained. "Could just be that this is how this particular ghost works. Could be that he's thinkin' he's gettin' close to his goal and that's what's powering him. No real way to know for sure."

Tony felt the beginnings of a headache starting to take root behind his eyes. _How come I got the feeling I was just pushed off into the deep end without knowing how to swim?_ "Getting stronger or not aside for now, why do you need to know where he's buried?"

"We have to sever his connection with what's holding him here," Sam explained. "In most cases, it's the body itself."

"So, how do you do that?" Tony asked, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

"Coat it in salt and set it on fire," Dean answered matter-of-factly.

At Tony's skeptical expression, Sam smiled at him. "It's not as weird as it sounds."

"No," Tony replied, "it's weirder. What's salt got to do with anything?" He recalled the spinning arc of spraying salt shaker and how it had seemed to make Mawher's specter vanish.

Abby raised her hand like a little kid in class and bounced in her seat for a moment. "I know! I know!" After she'd gotten three pairs of amused eyes to land on her, she grinned and said, "Salt purifies impurities and since ghosts aren't supposed to be here, they're an impurity on our plane of existence. Touching it temporarily shocks them back to where they're supposed to be – of course, they come back once they've regrouped."

Sam let out a small laugh and nodded. "Full marks. That's why you have to burn the body, too. That way there's nothing left here that can anchor them."

"While we're on the topic of salt," Dean directed his attention to Abby, "did you get a chance to ring your friend like we discussed?"

Abby shook her head. "No, his sister was always there or Tony was."

"Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us, then," Sam commented.

Dean nodded in agreement and ticked off a quick list on his fingers. "Salt McGee's room – that's probably up to you two, I don't think me an' Sam could get away with it. Immediately, if not sooner. There's no telling how long it's going to take this Mawher guy to build up the type of ease-of-access he's got at McGee's apartment, and regardless of any other factors, nighttime always makes spirits stronger. We also need to find out where he's been buried."

Tony checked his watch. "That doesn't leave a whole lot of time. Sunset's going to be around what, four-thirty?"

Dean nodded. "Sounds about right."

Abby chewed on her lip for a moment. "Hang on a minute, guys – I have an idea." She dug her cell out of the coffin-shaped backpack-purse she carried. She dialed 411. When the automated system asked her _what city, please_, she shrugged. "No idea." She had to blink when the automated system then asked her for the listing she wanted. "Maryland State Psychiatric Institute."

The robotic voice was silent for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry, but there is no such listing in No Idea, Arkansas. The only result returned is in South Laurel, Maryland. Would you like to be connected?"

"Yes!" Abby nearly shouted. While waiting for the connection, she shrugged. "Apparently, there's a town in Arkansas named 'No Idea' – who knew?"

Dean frowned and Sam started laughing. "What's so funny?" Tony asked as Abby twisted around a little to speak into her phone with a minimum of fuss.

"Oh, nothing much. Just that we went to school for a couple of months in No Idea," Sam explained. "I was in fourth grade at the time – Dean was in eighth."

That still didn't explain why Sam found it funny, but Tony figured it was one of those jokes that only family really understood. Abby quickly finished her phone call and twisted back into place next to Dean. "I got it!"

"Got what?" all three men asked, not quite simultaneously.

"Mikel was buried in the on-site cemetery at Maryland State Psych. Shouldn't be too hard to find the exact plot once we get there." Abby put her phone away and looked up to find Dean and Sam staring at her. "What? I told you – he had me as his next of kin, even though I never wanted it."

Dean shook his head a little and shrugged. "Okay then. Me an' Sam will head out that way – you two go back and do the salt. Even though this is gonna be a fresh grave, it's still gonna take a while to dig out."

* * *

An hour later, the sun was just starting to kiss the western horizon. Sarah had been sent down to the cafeteria with strict orders to eat something more substantial than a sandwich. Tony had tried to help Abby, but had been repeatedly shooed out of the way. So, he'd simply watched as she used an old bag of driveway salt from the trunk of her car to mark a ring around Tim's bed (and all the monitors he was wired to). A nurse showed up when she was only half-done, but aside from an odd look, she didn't comment on what Abby was doing. Curious, Tony followed her into the hall and asked why.

The nurse just shook her head. "We've been sued too many times over religious aspects of our patients' beliefs – we simply don't ask questions any more unless it's something that's dangerous to the patients themselves." She then excused herself to continue on her rounds.

Tony returned to Tim's room. "That was weird."

"What was?"

He shook his head, "Oh, just the nurse. Nothing serious. You about done?"

Abby finished emptying the bag of salt and nodded. "Yep. Did you put the sign on the door like I asked?"

Abby had drawn a small sign on a piece of computer paper that read _Please don't mess up the salt on the floor_, and signed it with a tiny bat-outline. Another note was left on the chair in the room. That one simply said, _Sarah – I'll explain later. Abby_. Tony nodded. "Yeah."

"Then let's hurry and see if we can catch up with Sam and Dean! I wanna see this."

Cemeteries weren't really Tony's thing, but much like anyone who crossed Abby's path, he found it hard to tell her 'no'. So, Tony simply said, "Let's take my car."

Twenty minutes later, they were winding their way along a well-maintained side-road in as rural an area as could be found within spitting distance of downtown DC. "Hey, there they are!" Abby pointed to a gravel cross-road.

Tony spotted the Impala in the dying sunlight and nodded. He slowed down and parked his Mustang behind it. "We haven't gotten to the Institute yet, though."

Abby unbuckled her seatbelt and leveled a 'duh' look at Tony. "They probably keep the cemetery out of sight. I don't think it would do much good for the mentally unbalanced to have to see it every day."

Tony admitted she had a point and followed her out of the car. Instead of actual fences, the land the Maryland State Psychiatric Institute used manicured shrubs. This far back from the main facility, they were in need of a trim. It didn't take long to find the small gap between bushes where Dean and Sam had pushed through onto the Institute's land. A short walk through some trees and they emerged in the oldest part of the on-site cemetery. The markers were mostly illegible – simple engraved metal cards on small spikes. _Here is where the forgotten are erased from the world for once and for all_, Tony thought, then shivered. He hurried his pace a little, heading for the sound of voices, hidden from sight by a slight crest in the terrain.

"…dunno, Sammy. I figure we'll crash at the motel again tonight, then head out tomorrow. Drop by Bobby's, maybe stop off at The Roadhouse for a night or two. Gimme a chance to increase our cash, at least."

Abby and Tony crested the low hill and spotted the boys not even a hundred yards away. Both were knee-deep in a fresh grave, shovels in hand. A gas can and a canister of salt sat a couple of feet from the edge of the hole, next to a pair of sawed-off shotguns and a small duffle bag. "We still need to do laundry, too. And it wouldn't kill you to go through the trunk, you know. The crap back there seems to be breeding."

"Hey, guys," Abby called out. "You need any help?"

They paused in their digging and looked up. Sam waved. "Hey yourself. Got the salt set up at the hospital?"

Tony and Abby finished crossing the distance between them. "Yeah," Tony replied. "And the hospital apparently thinks it's some sort of religious thing, 'cause no one even asked about it." He took off his jacket and handed it to Abby. He then tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Here, take a break." It hadn't escaped his notice that Sam's right hand was encased in a cast. _It can't be good to be digging like this with a broken arm._

He and Dean managed to dig down another two feet before the last of the evening sunshine faded into grey twilight. "Okay, kiddies, keep one eye peeled," Dean said while Sam stooped and scooped up the pump-action shotgun. Abby followed his example and picked up the double-barrel.

"You know how to use that?" Sam had to ask.

One of her eyebrows crept higher than the other. "Ballistics is in my job description. I've fired everything from Tony's Sig Sauer to a Bravo-51 sniper rifle and everything in between."

"Sorry I asked." Sam grimaced. "There's more shells in the bag, if you need 'em."

Tony just kept his head down and kept digging. Dean spotted the grin on his face. "What?" he whispered.

"She might not look it, but Abby can take care of herself," Tony replied, just as quietly, thinking of the time he'd rushed to her aid, only to find she'd lassoed Chip and hog-tied him in duct tape.

"I don't know about that," Dean whispered back. "She looks like she can take care of herself." His mind couldn't help but list the differences between her and Jo. _And I know which one I'd rather hunt with again, even taking Ellen completely out of the equation._

"What are you two whispering about?" Abby asked.

"Oh, I was just wondering how much deeper we have to dig," Tony replied.

"Until we strike wood," Dean said. They were a shade over waist-deep. "Come on, shag ass." He sped up his own shovel-action to match the command.

As twilight faded to true night, Sam's attention sharpened. He didn't stand still, but paced around the vicinity of the grave, eyes constantly scanning the shadows, his ears straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. He glanced over at Abby. Starlight and ambient city-light from less than a mile away in any direction was more than enough to see by. She stood with the shotgun down by her side with a casual ease that made him feel even more like an idiot for what he'd said earlier. She was following his example in keeping an eye on what was going on around them, rather than watching Tony and Dean dig. _I don't think I'd be surprised if we found out she's done this before_. He let the thought go and went back to work.

"Gettin' close," Dean said when the hole was just about even with the top of their shoulders. True to his word, the shovels hit wood with a hollow _thunk_ noise a couple of scoops later. Dean motioned for Tony to get out of the way. He hurried to do so, tossing the shovel out of the hole, then boosting himself out.

The sound of steel against wood, slightly muffled by damp earth, came from the bottom of the hole he'd just exited. "What're you doing?" Tony asked, peering into the shadows.

"Coffin's too new to just bust open," Dean explained. "Gotta open it the old-fashioned way." He rapidly finished clearing the dirt, then opened both ends of the cheap casket before climbing out of the grave. Sam paused his pacing long enough to hand Dean the gas and canister of salt. Dean opened the gas can and poured it into the grave. "Hang on, it's about to get interesting."

Tony was about to ask what he meant when he felt it, too – the air, already chilly, was rapidly becoming downright frigid. He stepped back from the open grave while Dean finished with the gas. Ozone and unleaded fumes mingled on the still air, making Tony slightly nauseous. The gas can empty, Dean simply tossed it to one side and pried the top off the canister of salt. A vaguely-human shaped cloud of glowing fog condensed into being right behind Dean.

"Down!" Sam shouted, then fired – the gun made an oddly quiet _pop_ noise, sounding more like a kid's cap-gun than anything remotely resembling an actual weapon. Despite the odd sound-quality, Tony momentarily thought that Dean had been shot – he'd dropped in response to Sam's warning so _fast_…

The ghost disappeared just before a starlit spray from the muzzle of the shotgun would have hit it. It reappeared directly in front of Sam, looking a little more _there_ than before. "Hey, Mikel!" Abby shouted. The ghost turned and Sam ducked out of the line of fire. Another _pop_ – this one only a little louder than the one from Sam's gun – cut through the air. The spray hit the ghost right where its chest was – _Do ghosts have chests?_ flashed through Tony's mind – and it dissolved into a cloud of black-glowing smoke.

The smoke surged towards where Dean lay on his stomach, spreading salt into the grave. It wrapped around him and, had Tony not seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. The smoke picked Dean up and tossed him. "Damn it! This one's a fast son of a bitch!" Tony wasn't sure if it was Dean who said it or Sam, but another _pop_ sounded, spraying the smoke with more salt.

The smoke tore itself into shreds, disappearing completely for Tony didn't know how long. A pain-filled groan sounded from the direction Dean had landed. Tony hurried in that direction and found Dean, semi-coherent, with a gash across his forehead from colliding with one of the metal grave markers. Behind him, he heard Sam say, "Finish dumping the salt, Abby, while he's still gone!"

"Hey, Dean," Tony helped him sit up. "You okay?"

Dean gave himself a little shake. "Yeah, I'm good. Just happy it wasn't made of marble this time." His tone of voice was enough to tell Tony that this wasn't the first time Dean had been tossed across a graveyard. Dean climbed to his feet and looked past Tony. "Sam! Behind you!" Sam whirled around, but the reformed – and noticeably pissed-off – ghost was quicker. Sam went flying the opposite direction Dean had.

At Dean's shout, Abby had also whirled around. She had the dropped salt canister in one hand and Dean's double-barrel in the other. Without pausing, she raised the gun and fired its second load of salt directly into Mawher's spectral head. The gun now needing reloading, she tossed it aside and finished dumping the salt into Mikel's open coffin. "Where are the matches?" she shouted.

"Duffle!" Dean replied, making to head her way, but realizing he'd landed _very_ wrong when his knee wouldn't support his weight. Tony grabbed his arm and kept him from face-planting into another metal marker.

Abby dove for the bag and came up with a box of Diamond Strike Anywhere.

The glowing fog was back, and rapidly coalescing into Mawher's form.

"Abby, duck!" Sam charged back into Dean and Tony's line of sight. He'd located the gun he'd dropped when the spirit had tossed him.

Abby followed Dean's earlier example and dropped to her stomach, spilling matches all around her and accidentally dropping the box into the open grave. "Damn," she muttered, then scooped up three of the spilled matchsticks.

Sam's gun _popped_ a new spray of salt over her, a few grains falling in her hair. She scraped the matches along the zipper of her Tripp-brand jacket. They flared to life and she dropped them into the hole.

For one breathless moment, she thought she missed the gas-soaked coffin, then the fumes caught with a muffled _thwump_.

Tony's breath caught as the smoke-shape seemed to catch fire along with the coffin, then explode outwards in a rain of embers that evaporated before touching anything.

* * *

**A/N2:** To my knowledge, there isn't really a place called 'No Idea, Arkansas' (though there is a 'No Name' in Colorado and a 'Why' in Arizona – I promise I'm not making it up!), I just thought it would be funny. Sorry if it fell flat.

And RL irony strikes again! When I was writing the scene in the graveyard, guess what was playing on my stereo. _Her Ghost in the Fog_ by Cradle of Filth. Gender aside, it's rather fitting, isn't it?

Before someone comments on it – the boys use salt-shells in their shotguns, not actual hunting rounds (like would be used to go after fowl or deer). Though I've no canon-basis for this, I always figured they bought riot-rounds in bulk (hence why they're white and not orange or red like most shot-shells) and converted them from firing plastic bbs to salt. Riot rounds do _not _fire like regular ammo – they contain far less powder (the goal is _non-leathal_, after all) – as a result, they make far less noise. More like a cap-gun than real gunfire noise. (This is just for the shotguns, mind – they use iron and silver bullets in their handguns, and since those are for mainly corporeal critters, they'd fire like normal bullets and be just as loud.) Thanks for your patience on my twisted logic.

There's only the denouement chapter left.

Remember to let me know what y'all think!


	6. Wrapping Up

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television shows 'NCIS' and 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

**A/N:** And here's the final chapter for this little story. Like I mentioned before, I'm not against doing more in this 'verse, but I currently lack for ideas, so any assistance would be appreciated, if y'all are so inclined, of course.

* * *

**Haunted**

_Wrapping Up_

Sam tossed their gear into the trunk of the Impala while Abby and Tony acted as human crutches for Dean. Sam grabbed the monster-sized Maglite and the first-aid kit once Dean was settled onto the car's hood. He nudged Abby aside – she'd been trying to use her cell phone to light the still-bleeding gash on Dean's forehead. Tony leaned against the driver's side fender and sighed. "That it, then?" he asked.

The cut wasn't as bad as it looked. _Couple of butterfly-bandages. Doesn't need stitches, I don't think_. Sam dug into the first-aid kit while Dean nodded. "Yeah. That's it. Problem taken care of."

"And he won't be back?" This time, Abby asked the question.

"Nope," Sam answered, wetting a square of gauze with rubbing alcohol. "You don't need to worry," he said, moving to clean Dean's gash out. "Mawher won't be back." He glanced at the goth girl and smiled. "Promise."

Dean hissed at the sting from the alcohol. "What's the damage this time?"

"No stitches," Sam replied.

"Good. Damn things always itch." The group fell into silence for a few minutes while Sam finished tending the cut. Once the last of three butterfly-bandages were in place, Dean dug a hip-flask out of his leather jacket and took a swig, then offered it to Tony. "You look like you could use this."

Tony accepted it and took a swallow before handing it back. "How's the leg?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Dislocated." Tony winced in sympathy.

Sam finished putting the packets of bandaids back into the kit, then moved to pick up Dean's leg by the ankle. He handed Abby the flashlight. "Hold this for me for a minute, will you?" Holding the ankle in his casted hand, he felt the displaced kneecap through Dean's jeans with his left. "On three. One, two," he applied sharp pressure and the bone slid back into its normal position. A strange, strangled noise escaped Dean's throat.

"Sonuvabitch!" It took him a moment to catch his breath. "We got any ice-packs left?" Sam shook his head. "Damnit."

"I think I've got one," Tony said, heading for the trunk of his own car. He rummaged around by feel for a minute, then returned with both the promised ice-pack and a prescription pill bottle. He squeezed the pack to activate its chemical contents to do their thing, shook it to speed the process, and handed both it and the bottle to Dean.

"What're these?" Dean asked, rattling the bottle of pills.

"Percocet," Tony replied. "I broke a couple of bones in my foot few years ago, but opiates and me don't get along."

"When did that happen?" Abby asked, trying to recall when Tony had last broken a bone.

"It was just after Kate joined the team – that case with the rigged-to-fail parachute and the guy who crashed through the roof of the SUV?" Tony explained.

Comprehension dawned. "Oh! When you got pushed out of the airplane."

Dean laughed, "Dude, you got _pushed_ out of a plane? And I thought my last flight sucked." The comment made Sam snicker. Dean smacked his shoulder to get him to shut up.

Tony smiled and shrugged. "Occupational hazard," he quipped. "Not really, though – there was a fight and I was right next to the door – just pure bad luck was all. I was wearing a parachute, but I landed badly." He watched as Dean dry-swallowed two of the pain pills. _I know what Ducky would have to say about taking those on top of the whisky, but he looks old enough to me to make up his own mind._ "What about you? Why'd Sam just laugh?"

Sam snorted in amusement again, then took it on himself to explain. "Dean doesn't like flying on the best of days, but the last time we got on an airplane, a chaos-demon tried to crash it."

Half of Tony wanted more information, but the other half of him won the argument by asking 'are you sure you _really_ want to know?'. "You know," he said instead, "the more I learn about what you two do, the happier I am with my own job – paperwork and all."

Dean shifted a little on the hood of the car, the plastic ice-pack rattling noisily as he did so. "Don't sweat the paperwork too much – I'd be happy to file a form or three in order to get paid for this."

Sam nodded in agreement, "Me, too."

"Wait, you guys do this for _free_?" Abby's disbelief was almost a tangible thing. "How do you _live_?"

"We get by," Sam replied. "Dean's a pretty decent poker player."

"And we haven't seen anyone yet who can beat the both of us at pool," Dean threw in his own two cents. "If we have a long stretch of downtime, I usually temp at a garage or for the local construction crews." Neither Winchester was about to mention the credit card scams, not with a fed right there, no matter that Tony was a pretty cool guy. Dean changed the subject and asked his brother, "How about you, Sammy? I know you got thrown across the yard, too."

Sam shook his head, his hair flopping with the motion. "Nah, I'm fine – just a couple of bruises."

Dean pocketed the ice-pack and slid off the hood of the Impala. "Okay, then – who's hungry?"

After a round of affirmatives, Dean mentioned heading back to Palmira's, but Tony mentioned knowing a great Italian place. Abby asked if she could ride with the Winchesters – she wanted to ask some more questions about what they did. On confirming that Abby knew the restaurant Tony mentioned, Dean tossed Sam the car keys. "I'll ride with Tony. Meet you there."

A couple of minutes later, Dean and Tony were leading the way. Dean resettled the ice-pack on his knee and let out a light chuckle. "S'pose not all cops are that bad," he said.

"What do you mean?" Tony asked over the low sound of Coltrane playing over the car's speakers.

Dean shrugged. "Just that most of the time, cops misunderstand what me an' Sam do – run us outta town soon as we show up an' start workin'. You're in the rare second category, though."

"How so?"

"You actually got your head outta your ass and _helped_."

Tony turned onto the road that would lead them back to the freeway to DC. "Sounds like that doesn't happen too often."

"Understatement of the century, dude. Only happened twice before, at least to me an' Sam – our dad had it happen a time or two, but that was when we were still kids, so I don't count it."

"I wouldn't count it, either," Tony replied, taking the on-ramp for the freeway. "Can I ask who the other cops were that helped you?"

"Sure," Dean could feel the percocet finally starting to kick in – the white-hot agony of his knee was starting to dim some. "First time was back in February. We were checkin' out this town in Minnesota – Hibbing – that had way too many missing-persons for how small it was. Wound up not being our kind of thing at all; this family of psycho-crazy people were behind it. Took guys hunting, if you catch my drift."

"Sounds like they read The Most Dangerous Game one time too many."

Dean chuckled, remembering the story from a seventh-grade English class. "Doubt they could read, but you got the gist of it. Anyway, they took Sam and I had to track his gigantor ass down. Deputy Kathleen Hudak helped me – her own brother had been disappeared, so I guess she knew what it was like."

"And the second time?"

"Oh, that was just last week, up in Baltimore."

"Seriously?" Tony's interest spiked. "Who? I worked two years in Baltimore Homicide before I came to NCIS."

"Detective Diana Ballard," Dean replied. He started to explain what had happened, but Tony cut him off.

"I'll be go to hell! Diana? How's she doing these days? We were on the softball team together, pitcher and catcher. Worked out pretty well, even though I was homicide and she was vice." Tony grinned at the fond memories he had of the summer games and practices.

"She's in homicide now," Dean replied. "Sam and I got wind of a suspicious death – guy was killed, but nothin' showed on security cameras, police baffled, same ol' crap for us. Anyway, we got there and started diggin'. Like usual, the cops didn't get what we were doing and figured we killed the guy – by this time, his wife was dead, too. Fast-forward some and we find the ghost, only it wasn't the one killin' people."

"Wait, _what_?"

"Not all ghosts are murderous sonsabitches. Some are warnings – omens – and others are just echoes, replaying the same scene over and over like a screwed-up DVD."

"If that's the case, then who killed the guy and his wife?"

"Detective Ballard's partner – Pete Sheridan. He'd been swiping heroin from the evidence locker, used the woman who was now the omen-ghost to fence it, then killed her. Apparently, the dead guy and his wife were Sheridan just tying up loose ends – they'd known, or Sheridan thought they'd known, what he was doing."

Tony let out a low whistle. "Damn. I'll have to remember to give her a call, see how Diana's doing."

* * *

Only part of Sam's attention was focused on following the taillights of Tony's Mustang. Most of it was on his passenger. Not even ten seconds after shifting the car into 'drive', she'd asked, "How come we aren't all haunted?"

"Well, it usually takes a violent death to create a ghost to begin with, but even then, there has to be some sort of reason for them to stick around." Sam reached over and turned off the radio.

"That whole unfinished business thing you read about in the books, huh?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Most of what Dean and I see are cases where someone wants revenge on who killed them or who are so locked in their own suffering they want everyone else to hurt like they do."

"How sad," Abby replied wistfully. "Is there any way to keep people from becoming ghosts?"

Sam shook his head. "Not that I know of. If someone's that determined to stick around, it doesn't matter if you cremate them – they'll find _something_ to anchor to, be it an old lock of hair in their parent's picture album or a piece of jewelry they've worn all their lives."

"So how do I keep this from happening to me again in the future?"

"Well, you know about the salt. Sea-salt and rock salt works best, but table salt will do in a pinch. Ghosts are a lot like people – they'll try the points of easiest access first, so if you keep lines of salt in front of your doors and windows, that will stop most of them. The more powerful ones, though, can come straight through the walls. Iron works well if they manifest to the point you can see where they are – and cold iron is best. Cat's eye shells also work, though I'm not sure why. Dean and I move around too much to use one, but if you're really serious about keeping yourself from being haunted again, you might want to look into obtaining a spirit-trap."

"I think I've seen one of those before – they're those etched mirrors, aren't they?"

"Can be," Sam confirmed. "Most I've seen were just painted on the glass, though. It's easier to paint something on an existing mirror than it is to etch it, after all, and you can wash it off when you're done – a good thing if you're not going to use it again."

"Any other tips on avoiding having this happen again?"

Sam shrugged. "Just use common sense, I guess. Oh, and stay away from antiques – you just never know. If a ghost's attached itself to something that wasn't originally a body-part, it can be extremely hard to get rid of them; you have to destroy whatever they're attached to."

"I guess I get it – a lock of hair burns pretty easy. An alabaster cameo set in gold? Not so much."

"Precisely," Sam smiled at her, and pulled into an empty parking space next to Tony's Mustang.

* * *

Dean woke up to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and knocking at the motel room door. "Just a minute," he called out, pulling on a pair of jeans that could do with a run through a washing machine, but weren't as dirt-encrusted as the pair he'd worn the day before. His knee still ached horribly, but he could actually stand on it and even hobble short distances before it started feeling like it was going to explode.

Leaning heavily on the frame, he opened the door to find Tony standing outside with a cardboard drink carrier and a paper sack. His nose told him it was coffee and donuts. "Mornin'," Tony greeted. "I come bearing breakfast."

"In that case, come in," Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way and hobbled back to his bed.

Tony handed Dean one of the cardboard cups after he'd sat down. "How's the leg?"

Dean shrugged a little. "Been better. What brings you by?" He popped the plastic lid off the cup and took a long drink.

"I just came from Bethesda – Tim's going to be fine. Wanted to thank you. Had you not overheard our conversation the other day, I have the feeling I'd be going to another partner's funeral this week."

"We're just doin' our jobs, dude," Dean waved away the gratitude.

Tony could actually understand the sentiment. He liked to think that he'd still be doing _his_ job, even if a paycheck wasn't an option. _Just don't tell the brass that – money does have its uses, after all._ "Still had to say it," he said out loud.

Outside, a beat-up old pickup was parked on the street. Gibbs watched his SFA disappear into the motel and waited. He hadn't been able to get any coherent information from Abby – just a lot of babbling nonsense and attempted side-stepping. He left her believing she'd been successful in hiding what she and Tony had been up to the night before. She had let enough slip, though, to bring him here.

And even though Abby wasn't about to give him a straight answer, his SFA _would_. So he waited.

Motion at the motel room's door let him know it was time. He climbed out of the truck and waited until Tony was finished speaking with the two men in the room. As Tony made his way back to his car, Gibbs fell into step beside him. "Want to tell me what that was all about, DiNozzo?"

Tony stumbled a little in surprise. "Boss! How did… I… Um…" He stopped in his tracks and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's just been a _really _weird couple of days, Boss."

"That a cause or an effect from hanging out with Dean Winchester?" Gibbs asked, his calm eyes centered on Tony's. Tony blinked at him, his brain obviously having difficulty coming up with something coherent. Gibbs decided to take pity on him. "Saw an inter-agency intel request a few days' back. Baltimore PD was lookin' for anything they could find on him and his brother."

Tony slumped a little. "They're not bad guys, Boss."

Gibbs trusted Tony's people-reading skills far too much not to believe him. "Care to explain their rap-sheets? They're pretty long for a pair of good guys."

Tony weighed his options and took a moment to look up at the sunny sky. "It's kind of a long story, Boss…"

_Finite Incantatem_

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**A/N2:** I know this isn't the longest story I've ever done, but I really enjoyed it – almost as much as I liked writing _Once is Happenstance_ (my first HP/SPN crossover). I hope y'all liked it, too.

Remember to let me know what y'all thought!


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